


A Venetian Interlude

by svetlanacat4



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svetlanacat4/pseuds/svetlanacat4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2014 Valentine's Day Challenge<br/>Story written for Spikesgirl</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Venetian Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikesgirl58](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/gifts).



 

The prompt....

 

 

 

Napoleon Solo sighed. This bedroom was both old-fashioned and… feminine. He considered with kind of dismay the fringed quilt, the frilled curtains framing the headboard, the doily under a well-matched vase, the bouquet… “A ‘maiden’ bedroom!” the charming old lady said with an apologetic smile. Speaking English pleased her because she taught English in a high school before retiring and managing this guesthouse, she explained. A ‘maiden’ bedroom with a ‘maiden’ bed, he realized as he put his suitcase on it. This was obviously a single bed. It didn’t really matter, though, as he was alone in the old guesthouse. He took off his jacket and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering where he’d go for dinner. For about two hours, he’d read and read again the files which he had to have an expert knowledge of, sitting next to a peaceful landscape he didn’t even watch. He hoped that fresh air and lapping would bring him serenity, that it would help him to concentrate. It didn’t.

There were reports, articles, and photos. There were percentage charts and diagrams. There were his notes. There were Alexander Waverly’s own annotations.  
There were issues and remedies. There were possibilities and proposals.  
One thing was clear to him.  
He was a U.N.C.L.E. agent, a section 2 agent. He was Chief Enforcement Agent.  
He damned loved it!  
People could sometimes see him as an extrovert and shallow man. People could see him as an ambitious one. He was a fighter. He was a player. He enjoyed thrilling expectation. He enjoyed sheer excitement thrumming through his veins. He fought against villains, evil ones. He saved innocents. He saved the world – How modest, an ironical voice chuckled in his mind.  
He damned loved it.  
One day, he’d succeed Alexander Waverly. He’d be Section One, Number One, chief of the New York U.N.C.L.E.  Headquarters.  
Occasionally, the Old Man ‘trained’ him in the mysteries of power. Section One was Policy and Operations…  Management and administrative stuff.  
Occasionally? Often. Too often, he thought. Waverly took him to meetings, sent him as his representative and, eventually, entrusted him with the organization of a summit.    
Policy and Operations? He shook his head. At the moment, it was definitely policy, diplomacy and psychology.   
One day, he might like this. No, one day, he’d like this, he admitted. Later, when he turned to be an ‘Old Man’ himself. At the moment, he missed hunt, fight and action.  
He stretched out and chuckled at the funny side of his fate as his left hand bumped the tiny mirrored armoire. No luxury hotel for him. For the sake of secrecy and budget, he found himself in this… How did Illya call that? A ‘bonbonnière’. A bijou apartment, all fringes and frills.  
His partner would probably die laughing at the scene. Napoleon loosened his tie and lay flat on his stomach across the narrow bed.    
Illya.  
His partner. His Russian partner. He missed hunt, fight, action and he missed his partner. Illya’d roll his eyes and berate him for brooding and complaining. He’d challenge him to their usual banter game. He’d happily tell him about canals, doges and glass work. They‘d have coffee at the Cafe Florian and fritto misto in a trattoria. He smiled. They’d probably spot some evil birds and get themselves into trouble. They were so good at that.  
Napoleon creased his nose. Would Illya be there, they might have to share this ‘bonbonnière’, to share the small bed. Illya wouldn’t mind as he could fall asleep anytime and anywhere.  
It was confusing. Illya Kuryakin was more than a partner, more than a friend.  Strangely, he was part of his life. An important part.  
He shook his head. Would Illya be there… but he wasn’t.  Napoleon peeped at the front page of the newspaper the old lady had left next to the vase.   He noticed a title about ‘San Valentino:  regali per li innamorati’ (gifts for lovers). So, it was St Valentine’s Day! The 14th of February, he realized.  He liked to celebrate Valentine’s Day in the U.S. It was about love, of course, but also about friendship.   
Illya.  
Napoleon couldn’t help smiling at the memory.   
On his first Valentine’s Day in New York, Illya had rolled his eyes at the sight of the Valentine cards on Napoleon’s desk. Then, he’d noticed a few cards on his own desk (some UNCLE girls, bewitched by the pretty blond agent) and a red box full of chocolates (Napoleon knew his Russian well).  The very special Illya’s smile had curled the left corner of his lips. Of course, later, the Russian had argued about Saint Valentine traditions in the U.S. and enumerated all the Christian martyrs named Valentine.   
At the moment – 7:00pm in Venice, 1:00 pm in New York - Illya was probably coming back to their office, unless Waverly had assigned him to some mission.  Hunt, fight and action.   
A resigned Napoleon sighed and grabbed one of his files. Policy and Operations.  
Suddenly, someone knocked at the door, drumming a very familiar rhythm. Napoleon’s hand, though, snaked automatically towards his gun. It couldn’t be.

“E permesso, signore Solo?”  The voice was very familiar, too. A smiling Napoleon got up and opened the door.  A blond man was leaning back against the wall in the hallway.  
Illya.  
“Prego, signore Kuryakin!”  Napoleon declaimed theatrically.  
As the Russian was about to enter the room, the blushing old lady appeared with a tray.  
“I thought you might like coffee. And I added some ‘baci’.” She caught her breath, “I made them with gianduia, hazelnuts and chocolate.  ... “ She handed the tray which Illya took with his most charming smile, causing the lady to blush again. “I hope your room suits you, sir.” Then, she trotted away.  
Illya put the tray on the table, next to the vase and fiddled with the frills. “Mmmm…  You get comfy, here, my friend!”  
“What are doing here, exactly?” Napoleon pretended to mutter.  
“Mr. Waverly sent me on an ‘errand’ in Milan and he suggested that I might meet you in Venice.  Fortunately, the lady had another room.” He looked around and chuckled. “Same ‘bonbonnière’ as yours but my quilt is white with pink roses...” He paused for awhile. “The ‘baci’ look delicious…”  
“An ‘errand’? “  
“Yes.  Just a document to get back.”  
“And he suggested that you might join me here? Why?”  
The Russian picked up a chocolate and studied it. “Yes. He thought you might need some… company. Apparently, pigeons aren’t the only birds in Venice.” He bit a morsel and almost purred. “This is really delicious! Give it a try!”   
Hunt, fight and action. Thrilling expectation and sheer excitement thrumming through his veins. Napoleon grabbed his jacket.  
“We might go out for dinner? I located a lovely trattoria…”  
Hunt, fight action and Illya.  
He damned loved it.

 


End file.
